


Back in the Black

by Worffan101



Series: Rachel Connor's story [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek Online
Genre: "superpowers" as body horror, Alternate Origin Story, Bisexual Female Character, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Like, Medical Experimentation, Rachel is a horny mess, The Borg, mild body horror, nonconsensual medical experimentation, really bi as fuck, space action, this is basically the background for the main character of some stories I've written, though more so in later stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 12:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worffan101/pseuds/Worffan101
Summary: Origin story for my character, Lieutenant Rachel Connor.In 2407, Rachel Connor relives the highlights of her brief life as she's assimilated by the Borg.  What she's not expecting is to wake up.What she's expecting even less is to wake up as what she thinks of as a monster.





	Back in the Black

**Author's Note:**

> This is the background for a series of stories I've been doing with my buddy StarSword-C, based loosely on the video game Star Trek Online that we both play. I will endeavor to explain expository terminology for those who are unfamiliar with the game or minor Trek lore. Some references are made to other stories in our ongoing shared universe: I invite you, dear reader, to check out his stories with Captain Kanril Eleya here: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5198322/StarSword-C
> 
> Some stories may contain potential triggers. Triggers for this one: Fantasy racism, internalized fantasy racism, mild body horror (forcible assimilation by cyborgs and regenerative healing abilities). 
> 
> Exposition:  
\--Kreetassians: Species of aliens from the Star Trek: Enterprise episodes "Vox Sola" and "A Night In Sickbay", here reimagined for my sanity.  
\--Jonathan Archer: Protagonist of Star Trek: Enterprise, here reimagined as a black man rather than white and an Ambassador instead of a Captain for my sanity.  
\--Chen Hwai: Reference to the fanfic series "Reimagined Enterprise" on alternatehistory.com, where this is the name of the Captain of the eponymous starship.  
\--Bolians: Blue-skinned, hairless alien species, part of the Federation.  
\--Romulans: Exonym for an offshoot of the Vulcan species who call themselves the Rihannsu, a word which means "Declared". The Romulan Star Empire and its State Sec, the Tal'Shiar, is an antagonistic faction in Star Trek. Possess pointed ears and green blood like the Vulcans; their society is under the authoritarian regime of the Empire and largely runs on intrigue and backstabbing.  
\--Sela t'Volskiar (Sela): Human/Romulan hybrid created by temporal accident, psychopathic Praetor and later Empress of the rump Romulan Empire.  
\--Klingons: Transliteration of the endonym thlInganpu', an alien species with a feudal, warlike society that slides between hostility and detente with the Federation. Possess distinctive bony forehead ridges and worship their messiah, Kahless the Unforgettable, as a quasi-divine figure.  
\--United Federation of Planets: Multi-ethnic federation of dozens of species, dominated by the Humans, Tellarites, and Vulcans. The protagonist faction of Star Trek.  
\--Third World War: Multiway 15-year nuclear conflict of the mid-21st century. Here interpreted as Augment ruled India and allies vs. fascist Russia vs. China vs. a fragmenting NATO. Devastated large swaths of Earth; in its aftermath, Humanity came together and united under the banner of United Earth to preserve the hard-won peace.  
\--Bajorans: Alien species from the planet Bajor, possess ridges on the nose and worship aliens that live in a nearby wormhole.  
\--Iconians: Malevolent alien species with powerful telekinetic abilities that invaded the Milky Way circa 2410 from a base in the Andromeda Galaxy. Sought to enslave the local powers and exterminate any who attempted to resist. Here presented as having been defeated by a massive alliance of Milky Way species that destroyed the Dyson Sphere being used as a nexus for invasion by the Iconians, prohibiting further incursions.  
\--Heralds: Slave species of the Iconians, genetically engineered to serve as shock troops. Fragment and flee allied forces following the defeat of the Iconian Empire.  
\--Andorians: Blue-skinned, white-haired species with antennae. Members of the Federation, from an ice world.  
\--Breen: Mysterious association of disreputable people. Here interpreted as an anarchic confederacy of people who have eschewed their former species to unite as one, the Breen. Former enemies of the Federation, now at detente.  
\--Borg: Omnicidal cyborg botnet with trillions of bodies slaved to one AI mind. Seeks to assimilate all life by force. The ultimate evil of Star Trek. Attacks the Federation settlement of Vega Colony for unknown reasons in 2407.  
\--Section 31: Federation-ultranationalist secret society and terrorist group of nebulous size and reach. Formerly tacitly backed by the Federation government during the Dominion War (2373-2375), now illegal.

When I was a kid, one of the first things we learned in first grade was how Humanity moved past the hatreds of old. 

After the carnage of World War 3, the devastating fifteen-year nuclear conflict in the mid-21st century that killed over two billion people and shattered the old Earth order of nationalism and petty conflict, the bulk of my species came together and agreed upon one thing--that bigotry and hatred could not be allowed to divide our kind again. The Johannesburg Compact that led to the founding of United Earth banned any form of discrimination on the grounds of race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, religion, lack of religion, social status, or disability (though there were a couple of provisions allowing for varying disability accommodations because ‘disability’ covered everything from quadriplegics to people with minor neurological disorders). It was one of the greatest agreements in Human history, and helped bring on our new golden age. 

What  _ really _ brought that age on, though, my teacher explained, was the Zurich conventions. After the involvement of genetic augments like Khan Noonien Singh in the war, Humanity knew that they had to be stopped from sabotaging the utopia we would build. Augments are savage and unreasoning monsters, I was taught. They think only to kill and rape and put themselves on top, seeing baseline Humans as inferior in a perverse and outdated eugenic-fascist mindset. Thus, we  _ had _ to control them. And so, we enacted the Zurich conventions, a draconian component of United Earth supreme law that was grandfathered in when we founded the Federation, which states that augments are not sentient, that they are not citizens, that they must register with the government and log all changes of address, that they may not join a labor union (the cornerstone of our democratized, socialist economy), that they may not come within 100 meters of children, that they they may not use weapons, and that there is no such thing as employment discrimination when it comes to them. Making oneself an augment, or one’s children, is one of the highest crimes short of murder. 

The kid next to me asked why augments don’t get to be free and equal like the rest of us. The teacher laughed at him and said, silly little boy, augments are all dangerous and uncontrollable, they need to be kept separate for our safety and theirs. 

Like a good little Earth girl, I bought it hook, line, and sinker. I hated the aug-filth dutifully whenever someone brought them up, lost a boyfriend over it when he said he knew a guy who turned out to be an aug-freak and that guy seemed alright (I objected, he said I sounded like a racist, we argued, he dumped me, which sucked ‘cause Chuck was the first partner I had who didn’t cheat on me)...yeah. I was a good girl with the right views and a good proper union-loving freedom-saluting aug-hating upbringing. 

Looking back on that years later...I wish I could slap myself upside the head and tell me just how fucking wrong I was. 

* * *

_ Borg vessel, near Vega Colony, United Federation of Planets. January 8 _ _ th _ _ , 2407 _ . 

Pain. My entire head is  _ pain _ , brutal and thoughtless as it crawls through my mind. The Borg. Nanites. They’re in me. I got nabbed. I’m being assimilated. 

I try to scream, to struggle, anything, as my body  _ wants _ to convulse and vomit as the  _ violation _ pours through me, activating my memories as the nanites trace along my nerves. But the Borg is there, and it is all-powerful, and it  _ squashes _ my feeble attempts to fight. My body continues its smooth walk down the corridor. I’m worse than dead now. My parents are going to be worried sick, Starfleet Command classifies assimilated personnel as MIA…

The nanites hit a memory, and unbidden, it consumes me. 

* * *

_ Vienna, Germany (European Union, United Earth, United Federation of Planets). June 6 _ _ th _ _ , 2396 AD.  _

The Germans really went all-out for the opening ceremony for this round of summer Olympics. I’m damn lucky that Dad’s a vet, otherwise we’d never have gotten front-row seats. Mahmud, my kid brother, is for once slack-jawed at the spectacle—damn teenagers. Alright, so I’m only eighteen, I can’t talk, but Amy’s sixteen and somehow she hasn’t gotten a Mohawk or shitty goth clothes yet. 

I’m about a meter and three-quarters tall, brown hair cut in a bob, with a Team America T-shirt sagging limply over my still-puny chest. I’m wearing a push-up bra and everything in the half-baked hope of attracting some handsome German, maybe one of those pretty Swedish chicks down the row, just for one of those crazy holiday flings they talk about in Amy’s romance novels, but I seem to have thrown craps in the boob department. But hopefully soldiers won’t care about that in boot camp…

As the bombastic local anthem draws to a close, the highlights of Germany’s incredible comeback in World War Three (comeback as in, at one point their government and military high command was blown up  _ en masse _ by one of Khan Noonien Singh’s minions right as America was self-destructing and NATO was a dead letter with the nukes flying left and right, and the  _ four  _ surviving legislators crowned an Emperor with a tinfoil tiara to try to rebuild morale, and even then they only survived as a coherent nation because the British and French backed them up in the nick of time) finishing up on the holoscreens, I’m drawn back to serious matters by the thought of my plan and the fact that I haven’t yet told my family. The Kaiser—a mid-sized man with a squashed-looking face and a magnificent brown, curling moustache, lights the ceremonial torch and salutes the crowd with a smile. The holoscreens switch from red, white, and black striped flags to the Olympic symbol and the emblems of United Earth and the Federation, and the announcer starts introducing the teams. Afghanistan’s contingent is big this year—I’ve bet money on one of their distance runners with a few friends back home. 

Amy and Mahmud have perked up a bit; the various teams’ official costumes are garish as usual, and my siblings are already arguing about which is the worst. 

Jordan comes up after a few more minutes. Damn. That sprinter says he trains in the Hejaz to maximize his heat tolerance. In four years, I’m gonna be out there in full kit. That’s gonna be rough. 

“Enjoying it so far?” Dad asks. I nod listlessly, distracted by the ceremony and my thoughts. Dad picks up on it. “Hey, Rachel, I know you’re having trouble deciding which school to go to. But trust me, Somaliland or Uruguay, even Starfleet Academy, your mother and I don’t care as long as you’re happy. They’re all good schools.” 

“I know, Dad. I…ah, I’ll tell you later.” 

“Finally figured out what you want to study?” he jokes. 

“Sort of. Tell you later.” 

He nods. “I’ll respect that. But try to just sit back and have fun, alright? This part’s still pretty boring, but they’re going to be done soon.” 

Time does fly, especially when you’re worried about telling your parents that you’re going to volunteer to die.  _ Or when a Borg nanite spike is reaving through your head, the bioelectrical imbalance forcing you to relive all of your memories at random… _ and it’s later at night, we’re back in the hotel with some dinner, and I work up the courage. 

“Mom, Dad?” 

“Yes, honey?” Mom replies. 

“I, uh. I’m going to Starfleet Academy. And I’m going to go Security, try to get into MACO.” 

“Rachel…” Mom begins, “this isn’t about Wei, now, is it?” 

“No, mom,” and damn but if my first real girlfriend isn’t a painful memory. Bitch took my virginity and then told the whole school about what I was like in bed, while fucking Mindy Winthrop behind my back the whole time. “I’m over her. Really I am. I’m over Chuck and Lisa, too.” 

“Starfleet Security’s dangerous, especially the ground-pounders,” Dad notes. “I respect your decision, but can I ask you why?” 

I shrug. “The Klingons are getting aggressive. The political trouble’s bad, and the mess with the Romulans that’s still going on has made it worse. FNN analysts—the good ones, not the idiots—are predicting another war within eight to ten years. I just want to do my part.” 

“Hmm. Well, I’d say try your best, but that might mean you get into special forces, and that…that’s a hard life, Rachel.” 

“I know. I want to go into MACO. There’s a whole galaxy out there, and while there’s a lot that’s friendly, there’s a lot that wants to kill us. Bacco may have been popular here but she got a lot of anger from abroad, and Okeg isn’t immune to external heat either, and that’s  _ before  _ we get to apolitical threats like the Borg. I want to protect people from that stuff, so we can  _ have  _ things like Earth and Risa and Aldebaran and Tellar Prime, worlds where everybody’s free and equal and everything’s peaceful. I want to help keep this world safe.” 

“Sweetie..” Mom begins, looking from Dad to me and back. “Maybe you need to put a little more thought into this…” 

“I did, Mom. Spent a month talking about it with Lisa before we broke up. I’m gonna do it.” 

“Well, I say go for it, then,” Dad says. “But try to stay safe, alright? See if you can’t get a Home Fleet posting, for your mother’s sake.” 

“Sure Dad. I’ll try.” 

I know it’s a lie, but it seems to keep Mom happy. 

* * *

_ Painthepainthepainthepain _

**Submit.**

_ No, no, I won’t! I’m Rachel, Rachel Connor, Lieutenant JG, Starfleet Military Assault Command Operations, SU2403… _

**Submit. **

_ No! I’m not a drone. I’m Human. I’m Human… _

The pain hits again…

* * *

_ Starfleet Academy. September 3 _ _ rd _ _ , 2398 _ . 

“Rachel, can I have the room?” 

My roommate, a pretty Bolian majoring in subspace dynamics, opens the door as I’m in the middle of studying for a course on Romulan space tactics. I look up—no surprise she’s got a dude, more surprising she’s got two, though I suppose with her tits and an ass like that anything’s possible. 

“Uh, I’m kind of studying, Mara, and it’s a Friday night, we’re halfway across campus from the library…” 

“I know, I know, but I really need the room…the lounge is too open and they live over in April Hall.” 

Shit. “Alright. I’ll…go see if I can find a quiet bench. Or something.” Lucky bitch. How do science majors somehow have more free time than soldiers in officer training? 

“Thanks, you’re a doll! I’ll make it up to you, I swear!” 

“Help me pass Warp Theory and we’re even.” It’s the same deal I make every time. I can’t hold her luck against her, not really; it’s not like I’m trying in the romance department, anyway. Though I’ve been on a couple of dates, which never panned out. 

I’m now twenty years old and I’ve put on fifteen pounds of muscle. High-protein diet plus lots of working out, just as Campbell-Johnsonism’s Good Book teaches. I still can’t believe that Amy converted to a parody religion gone serious. But I guess stranger things have happened. 

It takes me about fifteen minutes to find a good bench, after weaving through a bunch of drunk idiots partying like there’s no tomorrow. I hate living in a party dorm, especially in the first couple weeks of the year. I need to get into Ambassador Archer Hall next year, the one they named after the man who ended the Xindi crisis, who they’re rebooting a shitty ‘60s holoprogram about. Mara was super pissed last week that they apparently turned him into a white guy in the holoshow, and made him Captain of Enterprise NX-01 rather than Chen Hwai. 

The bench, at least, is nice, with a good view of the bay. Not that I can stop to see the sights, I still have two hundred and fifty more pages of Captain Hwai’s records on the Romulan Wars to get through. 

“Mind if I sit?” 

I look up. The speaker’s a muscular Kreetassian woman about my age, about ten centimeters taller than me. “Uh, sure. What’s up?” 

“Romulan wars. That’s what we have for Murkon.” 

I groan. “Me, too! And I’m going MACO, so this is basically useless for me on top of the misery!” 

“Hey, same here! I’m Bev. Bev-tak vo-Loskata to-Var kree-Sanat. I’m from Kreetassia.” 

“Rachel, Rachel Connor. I’m from Flint, Michigan. It’s up in the Great Lakes region of the US here on Earth.” 

“Neat. You have Murkon too?” 

“Of course. She assigns us so much shit that isn’t even relevant!” 

“I know! It’s absurd. I don’t think I’ve been so frustrated since I read that leaked  _ Enterprise: Dawn of the Federation _ script where they portrayed my whole species as stuffy dicks!” 

“Ah, come on, that one has to be a joke or a hoax, no writing’s that bad. They make Archer look like a dim-witted immature sex-obsessed asshole with a creepy dog fetish in that script. One of Earth’s most famous diplomats!” 

She shakes her head ruefully. “You’re probably right. Here, want to split the work? I’ll take notes on the second half, you get the first?” 

“Sure, I’ll take the first five chapters.” 

That deal lasted us all semester. Murkon never did catch on. Bev and I ended up getting into the same training platoon and even deploying together. It was stupid on my part, to get a friend in the service. But to be fair, it is kind of human nature. 

* * *

_ Getoutgetout GET OUT OF MY HEAD!  _

**You are a drone. Submit. **

My suit must be working. These new MACO bodysuits are supposed to have anti-Borg adrenals that will help counter the nanites. Unfortunately, that means more pain…and the Borg will catch on. 

Something whirs at the damaged plating on my chest, and the plastic is lifted away. My body stands helpless as my mind screams and the Borg begin to strip me. 

* * *

_ Hejaz desert, Jordan. June 2403 _ . 

Bev, Turner, and T’Len wheeze alongside me as haul ourselves out of the canal, covered in mud, grit, sand, sweat, and filthy water. Five days of survival after being dropped in the desert with only each other, uniforms, and knives. We made it all the way to the canal, across it, and to the finish line. 

Medics come rushing up, hauling us onto stretchers as my legs give out. I’m the shortest on the team, which just meant I had to push that much harder. Fortunately, I’ve bulked up in the last couple of years, and my endurance isn’t bad, either. Bev’s exhausted face bears a weary grin, undoubtedly matched by me, as she looks across at me. “Hey. Rachel. We did it.” 

I can’t help but grin in return. We made it. Four years in the Academy, two on tour, then 1 in Special Forces training and SERE. And we just finished goddamn SERE. 

“Fuck yeah,” I manage. My college buddy snickers, then gasps again for breath. “We’re fuckin’ MACOs now.” 

“Not quite yet,” a medic says. “You still have to be formally commissioned into the service. But still, good work, you’re in the upper third of passing times. I thought the water collection pit was inspired, myself.” 

“That was Bev and Connor,” Turner manages in between pants. “I still can’t believe that shit worked.” 

“Neither can I,” I wheeze. “Hey. I owe you guys. Drinks are on me next time at the bar.” 

“To hell with that, they’re on me,” Turner retorts. 

“They’re on me, and that’s final,” Bev says. T’Len raises an eyebrow and stays out of it. 

I’m covered in grime, I have a busted toe and lacerations on my arm, and there’s an infected cut on my cheek. And I’ve never felt better. 

* * *

_ Stop stop stop please stop… _

**Assimilation proceeding normally. You will be Borg. **

We’re getting close to my most recent memories. If the memories being accessed are somehow proportional to the rate of assimilation…I don’t have long to think. 

I’m in an alcove in full Borg body plating now. And I’ve never felt so naked. 

* * *

_ Oricon IV, Romulan border. March 2 _ _ nd _ _ , 2405 _ .

“Shit. Shit! Bev, cover my flank!” 

“Copy, L-T!” 

“Keep your fucking head down, Winslow!” The Federation Diplomatic Corps man we’ve been deployed to rescue cowers obediently. At least he’s not as stupid as Sugihara. “Reaper, this is Element Rapier, we have the package, under fire from multiple forces! Requesting emergency beamout!” 

“ _ Negative, Rapier. There’s a deposit of radioactive material nearby and a Tal’Shiar transporter scrambler up, we can’t risk it. _ ” 

“Fuck! Alright, change of plans. McKinnon! Dingiswayo! We’re taking that old apartment house! It’s Romulan War-era, reinforced afterwards to keep it up to code, that thing can weather artillery fire. We hold it as long as we can!” 

There’s a nice flashy battle going on in space above us. This border world tried to jump ship to the Federation now that the Neutral Zone is meaningless, but apparently it had a Tal’Shiar base on it, so the psychotic new Praetor, Sela, and Chairman Ruul (the Tal’Shiar’s leader) sent a full battle fleet. And with the losses we’ve been taking against the Klingons combined with the power struggle in High Command between Quinn and Riker, mixed with Admiral T’Nae’s fanatical anti-Romulan racism problem, my squad just isn’t getting the support we need. 

“What’s the plan?” Bev asks as the Scott and the Zulu move ahead. Morak, from Benzar, covers our rear as I haul Winslow’s cringing ass along with us. “We’re going to be completely surrounded in there, in less than five minutes.” 

“Remember Pavlov’s House, from small-unit tactics? I’m gonna seal the doors, then we bleed those bastards as they try to take us. Hold out long enough for a shuttle. Reaper, this is Element Rapier! We need shuttle pick-up as soon as you can manage, we’re going to try to hold a building until then for shelter! Pickup from the roof!” 

“ _ Copy that, Rapier. We’ll send pickup your way as soon as possible, hold out for as long as you can! _ ” 

“The sooner the better!” Ahead, McKinnon and Dingiswayo have breached the doors and are waving us forwards. I hustle forwards, hauling the diplomat, as a mortar sounds somewhere close-ish. “Bev, Morak, c’mon!” 

I hear a shout in High Rihan from behind us. Morak squeezes off a shot, and the shout turns into a scream. “Moving,” the Benzite growls. 

We make it to the building, the sounds of battle growing ever closer. A plasma bolt whizzes past my head as we dive inside and McKinnon closes the door. I turn and unload my phaser into the panel, melting it into useless goop. 

“Dingiswayo, Morak, start barricading that thing with anything you’ve got! Winslow, come with me. McKinnon, Bev, set up sniper posts, you guys know the drill?” 

“Yeah, I remember Pavlov’s House. Same setup?” 

“Third floor, we need roof access and good angles. Morak, Dingiswayo, come up once you’re done, one of you keep an eye on the door.” 

“Roger that,” Dingiswayo grunts, hauling a couple of big tables for the door. I head for the stairs. 

“This is one of those times I’d kill for an LMG,” I mutter as Bev and I secure Winslow and head for the windows. 

“We’ll make do,” my friend replies. “We made do in the Arm, we’ll make do here.” 

“Fucking Arm was a fucking shitshow,” I retort. “I’m never doing that shit again, not even if someone gets me a date with that chick from  _ Vulcan Love Slave 18 _ .” 

Bev snorts. “It wasn’t  _ that _ bad.” 

“I got shot in the ass, by a  _ ricochet _ off of a fucking reflective wall, it absolutely  _ was _ that bad.” 

“Hey, we lived, didn’t we?” 

“I got half my ass burned off!” Bev snorts and shakes her head at that. 

I motion with my hand. “Either way, helmets sealed, coms on. Don’t want the Rommies hearing us.” 

“Copy that.” Bev’s visor slides into place, as does mine. I head for one of the third-floor windows; already Romulan ground troops, looks like Tal’Shiar internal security division, are moving in to surround the building.

“Coms check.” 

“McKinnon here.” 

“Morak, I copy.”

“Dingiswayo, I copy.” 

“Bev here, I hear you.” 

“Good. Pick a spot, make it good. Pavlov’s house, you know the drill.” 

I take a look at the street again. They’re bringing in a portable mortar, and have ten soldiers on this side alone armed with disruptor rifles—looks like Rator K-pattern 2385s, heavy-blast siege rifles designed to tear through a body. Nasty stuff, but the range on those isn’t as good as a phaser DMR like the TR-18s they issued us. But they outnumber us, big-time, and they have two snipers with what I think are high-density rifles…

“Bev, can you take out the mortar?” 

“On it. Just say the word.” 

“Alright. I’m gonna launch a grenade in there and see how they react.” My secondary weapon’s a TR-20 phaser pulsewave gun with an underslung antimatter grenade launcher. Useful for dealing with clustered foes, though it was designed for Borg. I target a group of three Romulans standing together, pop out into the window, smash it open with an elbow, and shoot off the grenade, rolling back behind the wall as disruptors score my shields. 

Bev’s had time to use her own high-density phaser beam, and the blast melts straight through the mortar, rendering it a useless smoking pile of junk. From below, I hear phaser shots as the rest of the squad opens fire. 

The Rommies are scattering into buildings by the side of the road when I look back. Four dead, two injured by the looks of it. Not bad. We can’t hold for a month like Pavlov did, that lucky bastard had a trench dug back to Soviet lines and had enough barbed wire and mines to form a good perimeter, not to mention machine guns and an antimateriel piece, but we have thousands of credits’ worth of state-of-the-art weaponry. We can hold a couple hours. 

“Reaper, this is Element Rapier! I need an ETA on that evac!” 

“ _ Thirty minutes, but don’t quote me on that! Sixth Fleet’s here and we’re pushing them out of orbit! As soon as it’s clear I’ll send the shuttle! _ ” 

“Hurry up! We have the package but we’re pinned in a building and surrounded, limited ammo and weapons! I’m gonna try to go Pavlov’s House on them but without antimateriel we’re in deep shit!” 

“ _ Copy that! I wish I could offer more but for now you’re on your own! _ ” 

“Roger that. Rapier out.” Of course. Of fucking course. 

“Well, campers, it looks like we’re in for an interesting day.” 

Bev snickers. “Interesting like the Arm?” 

“Fuck you, Ensign.” 

“I thought so.” 

I settle in, resting myself on an overturned chair with my DMR pointed in the general direction of the enemy, ready to pop off a couple of shots at anyone stupid enough to move. Hopefully they won’t roll up a tank. 

* * *

_ No no oh god please naaaaahhHHHH!!!!  _

The Borg AI doesn’t care about pain. It also doesn’t care what its drones think on the subject. My mind is forced back into the present as the neural cascade temporarily halts, just long enough for me to see through my one remaining eye as a Borg drone removes my hand and begins attaching what looks like a Swiss army knife with a buzzsaw. I want to black out, my body is  _ screaming _ to just black out and collapse, but the Borg’s presence in my brain keeps me standing placidly as my hand is sliced off like so much meat and the nightmarish appendage is stitched in. And I feel every second of it. 

Then the Borg returns to infiltrating my brain. 

* * *

_ Oricon IV. March 2 _ _ nd _ _ , 2405 _ . 

“Dingiswayo, how’s McKinnon?” 

“Bad, L-T. Mortar sent part of his rib into his lung, and his armor’s systems are fried.” 

“Shit.” McKinnon has maybe twenty minutes. Captain Bronstead swears that the skies are clear and he’s sent a shuttle, but I can still hear Romulan batteries sounding and see the fires. Plus, there’s now a tank in the road that’s starting to edge around the too-tight corner. “Do what you can. Bev, Morak, you got anything left for the tank?” 

“I’m out of grenades, L-T. Down to one power cell for the phaser, too—full power really eats it up.” 

“I’ve got no grenades either,” Bev reports. “I have one and a half power cells, and my secondary’s dry.” 

Shit. And that’s a fucking tank that’s now halfway around the corner, with a plasma cannon that will knife through our little barricade on the door in about two shots. “Right, give me the two full cells, I’ve got a crazy idea. Get Winslow and McKinnon to the roof with Dingiswayo, they say evac’s coming.” 

“You want to overclock a TR-18? Are you nuts?” Bev’s incredulous. I shrug. 

“You got any better ideas?” 

She glowers, but hands over the cell, followed by Morak. “Good luck, L-T. You need it,” the Benzite says. 

“Thanks. Get your asses moving, and be careful with that dumbass.” Poor McKinnon got his ass toasted by a mortar shot from the Rommies. Lucky that it hit the wall rather than coming in through the window, or he’d be meat. 

The tank’s mostly around the corner now, the raptor insignia on the front slightly burned. Tal’Shiar didn’t used to have their own tanks and fleets. 

I strip my TR-18, something I’ve done a thousand times. I pull out the regulator—I only need one shot, though of course if I miss shit hits the fan—and use the wires to jury-rig two more power cells to the weapon’s body. One shot—the blast from this should liquefy the emitter tube and partially melt the plastic. But it should also function as a makeshift antimateriel weapon. 

Below, the tank’s cannon fires, and the building shakes as superheated plasma rams into the doors. It seems they’ve caught fire—smoke begins to waft up. Hellfire, that thing’s powerful. I snap most of the rifle back together and carefully rest the nozzle on the windowsill. One shot. 

The tank’s getting closer. They’re going to fire a breacher next, if they break the doors we’re screwed. I pop up, draw a quick bead on the tank’s center of mass, take a disruptor bolt to my shields, and pull the trigger. 

A pillar of superheated air ignites around the laser blast, the pulse of expanding, igniting air blasting me back like a giant recoil. The tank ignites in a sheet of flame, then explodes, the treads slumping as the core blows bits of metal sky-high. I think I underestimated the yield. 

No time to think about that now, though. I roll to my feet and run for the stairs up. Any Rommie with half a brain will know that that was a last-ditch plan and we’re out of options. Please, please, don’t let the shuttle be late…

As I sprint onto the roof, a sleek white shape descends from the sky. “ _ Element Rapier, this is Welcome Wagon, we’re coming in for extraction _ .” 

“Thanks. Thank fuck you came now. Be warned, LZ is a bit warm.” 

“ _ Copy that, Lieutenant _ .” I stumble to my squad’s sides as the door rumbles open below. The Rommies are through. But the shuttle’s here, and the rear hatch is open. I grab Winslow, and the others cart McKinnon in. “We’re in! Go, go, go!” 

The pilot guns the engines, and the rear hatch closes before the first Romulan reaches the roof. 

I turn to Bev, who’s grinning like a madwoman. “You’re right. Not as bad as the Arm.” 

“I told you so! Ha! I’ll get the drinks tonight, just for that stunt.” 

Dingiswayo and Morak cheer. Winslow coughs at my side. I turn. “Yeah?” 

“Thank you, Lieutenant. For everything. You and your squad just saved my life back there.” 

“Hey, saving diplomats who’ve gotten caught up in Romulan politics is the  _ least _ crazy thing we’ve done this year. Don’t mention it.” 

“Still. I have three kids back home, and if it weren’t for you they’d never see their father again. If you ever need a favor…I’m on your side.” 

I shake his hand. “Thanks. Drop by the bar on deck 3 later, if you’re sticking around on the  _ Bonn _ . I’ll get you a synthale.” 

* * *

_ Vega Colony, United Federation of Planets. January 5 _ _ th _ _ , 2407.  _

“What the  _ fuck  _ are the fucking boltheads doing here, anyway?” I scream. 

“Don’t ask  _ me _ !” Bev protests, gunning down a drone on my right as we hustle for the Borg signal beacon, the evil green  _ machine _ that’s summoning more of the cyborgs to this former garden world. We just terraformed this place, and now the Borg are going to take it away from us? 

“We’re in the middle of Federation space! Why the hell—it makes no sense!” 

“I know! On your—good shot.” 

“Thanks. How much further?” 

“I make it a hundred yards,” the Kreetassian says, still about ten centimeters taller than me. We both look the part of stereotypical MACOs now, sleek, muscular forms in smooth powered armor. “We should’ve brought more people.” 

“No, we’d have been more of a target. Better to leave the rest of the away team as a distraction. Shit!” I hit another drone in the leg with my projectile gun, a standard-issue Yoyodyne Systems TR-21 assault rifle. Drones may be enemy combatants, but if we can take down the beacon there’s a chance that we can save them, I can’t risk headshots. Thankfully, the drone goes down, one of the leg cybernetics sparking. “Of course, the minute they know what we’re going for…” 

“Yeah, that was my thought,” Bev says. “Cover me?” 

“On it.” She moves up to unlock a gate that’s between us and the beacon—one thing the Borg haven’t suborned yet. “In!” 

“Go, go, go!” 

We open the gate with a pair of grunts and two shoulders, and run for the beacon. It’s a straight show from here, they set it up by this town’s main power generator, at the end of an avenue. A dozen drones turn and move for us…

“Hang back and cover me!” I order, pulling out a grenade. “I’m going in!” 

“Good luck!” 

I charge forwards, panting heavily as my armor strains to the limits of its joint servos. A Borg falls on my left, Bev’s work. Good shot, right to the knee. One gets too close to me, and is headshot. Pity, but we can’t risk it tripping me. Shit. Six more, arm-guns raised…

Plasma bolts wear my shields down to nothing and score my armor; I’m going to have burns from this. I scream with rage and pain and throw the grenade. It’s got enough yield to level a building at that setting, it should…

The grenade hits the beacon, bounces off…and explodes so quickly that I can barely register that it technically bounced. The blast of heat and light sets off more warnings in my suit and flings me backwards off my feet, but the beacon’s malevolent transmitter spine shatters, the device itself sparking and coughing smoke as the feedback burns out its insides. I roll, pulling myself to my feet and beginning to trot back…

A downed but still active Borg grabs my leg. I swear, pulling out the TR-21, and pull the trigger. 

There’s a  _ pop _ and the gun jumps in my hands. Oh shit. I slap it, pull the trigger again…nothing. Jammed. 

I kick desperately at the drone, bend down—Bev’s screaming in my coms, god damn it, god damn Yoyodyne Systems and its shitty engineering…

Something hits me in the back of the head and everything goes dark. 

* * *

**Assimilation successful. We are the Borg.**

* * *

“…you fucking asshole, Drake said volunteers only!” 

“The adaptation suite was supposed to dissolve the Borg nanoprobes, where are we going to get a volunteer to get injected with those?” 

“Don’t pull that shit on me, Tennyson, you can find plenty of people ready to die for the Federation if you know where to look. Fuck. Well, we have a unit, we might as well use her. She’s loyal?” 

“Yes. We used a cranial implant, embedded in the brain stem. It does whatever we tell it to, or should. We were waiting for it to wake up properly.” 

“ _ She _ . That’s a soldier for the Federation there, gladly giving her life for our glorious nation.” 

Voices. Two male. I open my eyes, slowly. There’s a reflective ceiling above me, I can see a Human and an Andorian arguing off to my side. 

“The experiment isn’t Human, Agent th’Vathandras. It’s a living weapon, and it’s legally an Augment. It has no rights, and must be registered with the government at all times according to Federation law. Though, of course, we’re not going to be registering it.” 

“Listen, asshole, I know she’s just a weapon, but we have a reputation to uphold.” 

“Reputation? Your employer is only tangentially related to the Federation government and this organization, Section 31? It’s nothing but a well-funded terrorist group!” 

“Of course. But we’re fighting  _ for the Federation _ , and the  _ Federation _ has a reputation to uphold. We will cloak our less-popular actions in propaganda, and we will do so at  _ all _ times. Now, her abilities?” 

“The unit is considerably stronger than even a proportional Vulcanoid,” the Human says, moving over towards me. I close my eyes most of the way. “It has last-resort weaponry grown into the arms, modified dentition just in case, and its body fluids dissolve anything foreign that enters its body and re-use or pass it. Hell, it even digested the Borg implants…” 

“Wait. She digests implants?” 

“Yes. It’s a Borg-proofing feature, we’re quite proud of…” 

“And how were you controlling her, again?” 

“An implant in the…oh, shit.” 

“How the fuck did this  _ never _ occur to you? And you  _ never  _ checked the implant to make sure it was—you fucking moron! Fuck! I’m telling Drake to stop funding you, this plus the self-immolating eppohs? You’re a fucking hack, Tennyson! Sixteen million credit hack!” 

“I’m not—what are you doing?” 

I hear a phaser pistol buzzing up to max, incredibly acute. My senses are sharp,  _ too _ sharp. I can  _ smell _ the panic in the Andorian, like cinnamon and synthale. “Terminating her. We can’t risk a disloyal supersol…” 

My instincts, honed over years of MACO work, kick into action. I lash out, grabbing the Andorian’s arm by the wrist and hauling myself up to grab his shoulder as I  _ twist _ . 

The wrist snaps like spaghetti, and the Andorian screams in pain, dropping the phaser. I head-butt him, and my head  _ vibrates _ with the sheer power of it. He goes limp in my hands; I snap his neck with one hand. I’m  _ too _ strong, what the hell is going on? The last thing I remember…

I was a Borg. What the fuck? What’s going on? 

“You!” I rasp, pointing at the human, Tennyson. “What the fuck is going on? Who are you? Where am I?” 

“Unit!” he whimpers, creeping backwards. “Stand down! I order you to stand down!” 

“Fucking…answer the goddamn question or I tear your head off!” Too late, I see what he’s going for. I leap forwards, crushing him against the plastiglass wall of this room and cracking his skull, but he’s already hit the alarm. Fuck. 

I’m in a standard-issue Starfleet Medical hospital gown, covering my upper body but leaving my knees and below exposed. Nothing on underneath—of course, they said I was a weapon, I’m probably not supposed to have free will. Assholes. I need to get out of here—I grab the phaser from the floor, shoot through the opaque plasteel door, and hurry into the hallway beyond. There’s a door a little ways down—looks like an office. I duck in, hearing boots rapidly coming closer. The computer’s still on, so I don’t need to hack it—a quick search brings up the map of this place, looks like a small facility, minimal security, escape pods are  _ there _ , good. I need to get out. 

I duck back out the door…and straight into the guns of four Human men in black jumpsuits. I recover first. 

“SHOOT HER!” one man screams as I shoot through one’s gut—the phaser’s still set to kill—and duck backwards. Phaser beams crisscross the air, and I yell in pain as one burns through my gown and lances into my gut. Shit. I feel like my insides are dissolving, but I force myself to stay on my feet, kicking over the desk and getting behind it, then squeezing off a potshot that gets the guy who pokes his head in. 

“The fuck do we do?” one of the survivors asks from behind the wall. 

“Easy. Tennyson’s dead, we tell the techs to get out, then blow this joint.” I hear a radio squawk. “Doc Mulvaney, this is Sergeant Rollins, your boss is dead and your little weapon is loose. I don’t want to have to say ‘I told you so’ about augs being dangerous…but I do. Get out now, I’m remote-setting the self-destruct for one minute. If you’re not off by then, you die. We’ll terminate the aug rat and evac in the last pod. Use the thrusters to get to the shuttle, if you fuck it up you get left in space.” 

Shit. I calculate the time I need to get to that escape pod, and likely to minimum safe distance. I literally need to move now. 

“C’mon, Corporal, let’s move!” 

I have to wait, they’ll keep their weapons hot and pointed this way if they have any sense. I’ll just have to…

My hand brushes over the hole in my robe—and I freeze. I look down. 

Skin is crawling over the hole in my gut. It still burns, but I can  _ see _ muscle, fat, and skin coming together, plus something dark and hard-looking in the fat layer. What the hell? My skin is  _ burning _ , starting to do so all over now. My body temperature must be jumping, too, because suddenly I feel feverish and the air is cold. 

But I’m healing, somehow, from what should be a mortal wound. 

I can do this. 

I roll over the desk and sprint out the door, gun ready. I shoot the younger-looking soldier in the face immediately, but his shot catches me in the shoulder, and I yell in pain, dropping the gun. Can’t stop now, have to close. Rollins fires from the hip as he hustles for the escape pods down by the end of the hall—I can see people in coats already climbing in. Unsurprisingly, Rollins misses by a mile, but he’s still too…

I’m closing in, and  _ fast _ . Holy shit, I don’t think  _ anyone _ ’s ever been in this good shape. 

I catch Rollins just as the next-to-last escape pod launches, throwing myself at him and dislocating his shoulder with a body-weight twist-slam. He screams. I pull his knife from his hip and slit his throat, then snap his neck for good measure. 

” _ Warning. Selfdestruct will detonate in thirty seconds _ .” Shit. I try to stand…

White-hot pain flares to life across my body as something  _ shifts _ beneath my skin. I scream, then howl in pain. Something  _ tears, _ and I’m covered in blood and shreds of…oh god. That’s my skin. It’s splitting, tearing, and coming apart as chitinous plates emerge and align into a sort of matrix across my body. 

I can’t help but turn to the side and vomit, dry heaves wracking my body. 

“ _ Warning. Selfdestruct will detonate in twenty seconds _ .” 

I’m hungry. So hungry. I look down at Rollins…and my hunger  _ surges _ , he looks so  _ delicious _ ...

No. I can’t. Not now…

But escape pod rations are miniscule, and I’m  _ so _ very hungry…

“ _ Warning. Selfdestruct will detonate in fifteen seconds _ .” 

I force myself to leave Rollins, run for the escape pod, and launch myself with three seconds to spare. 

The rations are gone in under a minute. Then I turn to my skin, still hungry. It’s disgusting, but I  _ need _ to eat like I never have before. 

Something flares and goes to warp after a few minutes—the shuttle Rollins mentioned? He said something about people in escape pods being left in space—must be an old surplus model shuttle, without good sensors. Section 31 uses secondhand crap, I know that much. 

My hunger finally mostly sated, I watch the cooling remains of the asteroid base that until recently housed me and some Section 31-affiliated scientists. 

Shit. What the fuck do I do now? And what was that Tennyson said? I’m…

I look down at my new scales, covered in my own blood. Oh god. There’s only one explanation. I’m an augment. 

I’m a  _ monster _ . 

* * *

The Breen scavengers find me six hours later, whimpering in the escape pod. They’re pretty surprised as the chitin is reabsorbed into my skin and my human appearance returns over the next few days, but at least they agree to keep it quiet in exchange for me pitching in on a job they’re doing, then agree to drop me off on Pela Teram with a ticket to Cardassian space on a passenger liner. Nice folks, Breen are, long as you’re on their good side. Quite the work ethic. 

Even when I get back to Cardassian and then Federation space, though…I have a problem. Section 31 is on my trail, I have agents trying to kidnap me at irregular intervals, four times over six months. I have to do something…

Then I remember Oricon IV, that nasty mission in a Romulan city during a space battle, and I know what I can do. 

* * *

_ August 9 _ _ th _ _ , 2408 _ .  _ Office of Federation Councilman Arthur Percival Winslow (PSoc-United Earth), Paris, France _ . 

Arthur Winslow, formerly a decorated Federation ambassador, now a war-hero-lite and member of the Federation Council, settled back in his chair with a sigh and swiveled for a view of the Eiffel Tower. Freedom Day, he noted. They were hanging Marshal Moliere, the fascist dictator who had taken power in France for two bloody years of World War Three, in effigy from the tower. A bit of a bloodthirsty celebration in this day and age, he thought, but then again, anyone who’d spent a few years in Paris had been to the Third World War memorial and had at least casually looked over the exhibit on the French Third Empire’s atrocities. There were advantages to remembering the horrors that Humanity had endured before it had reached its present state of enlightenment, Winslow admitted to himself. 

His desk comm buzzed. “Yes, Sven?” 

“ _ A woman is here for you, Councilman Winslow. A Rachel Connor? She says she saved your life? _ ” 

Ah! One of the MACOs from that dreadful mess on Oricon IV. Winslow stood and checked his formal attire in a mirror—impeccable, good. “Send her in.” 

The woman who entered was wearing a deep hood and a set of nondescript, cheap civilian clothing with Tellarite styling. “Councilman Winslow, thank you so much for letting me in.” The door closed behind her, and she took off the hood—the hair was shorter, but it was the same face. 

“No, please, thank you! Your team did save me from certain death, after all. May I offer you a drink?” 

“No, thank you. Um, this is sort of about…” 

“The favor?” 

“Yeah. I’m…technically MIA. There was an incident. Through no fault of my own I was separated from my unit and…held for some time.” 

Winslow hadn’t gotten as far as he had by not knowing how to read emotions. The woman was hiding something, but not lying. “Would I be correct in assuming that you would like to be reactivated, but do not wish to explain more about the reason you wish to do so?” 

“Well, I figure it’s easier than how I’ve been living this past couple of months. Besides, I didn’t quite finish my tour. I joined MACO to serve my nation, and I want to keep doing it.” 

No lies. “I suppose that I can pull a few strings. How would you like an interview on the news about your undoubtedly harrowing escape from…I presume Rura Penthe?” 

“NO! Sorry, no, please, sir. I need it quiet. Really quiet. There’s some people, a terrorist group, they’re hunting me. On a Starfleet ship I’m safe, it’s too small of a world on those for them to make me disappear. Plus I can do some real good out there.” 

No lies. Though again, hiding something. Winslow decided to test the waters. 

“May I ask what happened to you, Lieutenant?” 

“I’d…rather not say…” She was looking from side to side, licking her lips. “Protective custody won’t cut it, I need to get out in the black, and  _ fast _ , before they see through my cover.” 

Winslow didn’t push. “I see. Well, you are a terrible liar, Lieutenant, I know you’re hiding something but I’m reasonably confident that it is not treason. I will make a few calls. I assume you’re using an assumed alias?” 

“Yes. Denise Richards. 315 Simo Häyhä Avenue, Rautjarvi, Finland. Here on Earth.” 

“Excellent.” Winslow held out his hand. The woman shook—even for a well-muscled body like hers, it was an impressively strong grip. “Welcome back to Starfleet, Lieutenant Connor.” 

“Thank you so much, sir.” She was almost crying. “I won’t fuck this up, I swear!” 

Winslow smiled benevolently, a gesture that he’d refined to perfection these last few years. “My pleasure, Lieutenant. I do owe you my life, after all.” And he wasn’t even lying. Arthur Winslow was a refined British gentleman of a great pedigree, with ancestors stretching back two hundred years in the FDC. He took a great deal of pride in being a man of his word. 

The woman left, pulling up her hood and still thanking him. Winslow saluted her as she left, waited until the door closed, and grabbed his PDA to make a call. He’d have to do a quick background check via a friend in Starfleet Intelligence, but he was reasonably certain that the woman would get her wish. 

Two days later, Rachel Connor boarded a shuttle from Helsinki Regional Spaceport. In a week, she was out in the black again. 

* * *

_ Rachel. August 10th, 2410. Bridge of the Iconian command ship  _ Unyielding Hierophant.  _ Outskirts of the Iconia system _ . 

I slump against the Iconian’s command chair with an involuntary grin, the tac plot flashing as hundreds of Herald ships--the servitor species of the Iconians--warp or gate out in desperation. We  _ did _ it. We actually fucking did it. We took the dreadnought, Kanril Eleya’s plan took down that Dyson sphere,  _ we saved the fucking galaxy _ . 

“Holy shit,” Petty Officer Andrew Lamont, my second ever since Talur got killed, rumbles. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him swear. “We actually did it.” Petty Officer Luiz shucks his helmet with a grin, K’tar (my tech) slicing the computer systems.

“We are  _ so _ lucky that the Iconians couldn’t find their asses with both hands,” I chuckle. “For a species who’ve been preparing for this invasion for thousands of years and can build ships that make our best look like a joke, they don’t have very good tactics or data security.” I tap the obnoxiously gaudy armrest of the throne, an obscenely ornate lump of metal that reflects the preening arrogance of its late former occupant, and groan as something inside my suit sloshes--probably the remains of my skin. “Hey, you guys, uh, mind looking away for a minute? I, uh, gotta change.” 

“Change?” Petty Officer Aarno Kallio asks. He’s new, a Finnish sniper I poached from another squad that got broken up after one of the brutal fights we had earlier in the war, in to replace my former second, Oran Talur, a jovial Bolian who sacrificed himself to save the rest of us during the initial invasion. Goddamnit, I need to not think about telling Talur’s family…

“Yeah.” I start unbuckling the ruined remains of my armor. “My undersuit’s kinda really uncomfortable under here, the chitin plating rubs on it.” I pull some of my shredded skin out of my undersuit’s neckline with a grimace. “Thanks for not shooting me earlier, by the way.” 

He shrugs. “Any one you walk away from, sir. Though, I’d have appreciated a warning that you’re, you know, a fre...ahem, an augment.” 

“Not something I can trust anybody with.” I start shucking the undersuit, ripping strips of tattered, bloody skin off of my plates and tossing it on the ground. Kallio’s eyes don’t leave my face, even as I get the skin bits off of my breasts. 

“Fair enough, sir.” He turns aside as I start taking off the upper part of my suit’s legs. “What is that stuff, anyway?” 

“Chitinous keratin, the docs call it. Basically the same stuff as hair and fingernails, but a lot harder and thicker. Grows under my skin if I get hurt, it’s burn-resistant and damn hard to cut.” 

“Who the  _ helvetti _ did this to you, sir?” 

“Section 31. I was assimilated, they used my drone body as a base for their mods.” 

He curses in Finnish. “That’s just  _ wrong _ . Aug or not, that was an evil thing to do.” 

Before I can respond, my coms unit squawks from my ruined helmet. “ _ Connor, Kanril. I’m coming over to inspect the prize _ .” 

My blood freezes. Captain Kanril Eleya seemed to  _ like _ me, she  _ can’t _ know what I am. “What? No, sir, wait! Just wait...five minutes!” 

“ _ Connor _ ?” 

“Just five minutes, sir, I swear!” 

There’s a moment of silence, then a transporter hum, and I scream in panic and jump as the Captain materializes out of nowhere. “Shit! I asked you to just wait five minutes! Sir!” 

The Bajoran woman (and mastermind of the plan that just saved our civilization) stops with her hand halfway to her phaser, and gapes. “Lieutenant Connor? What the  _ phekk _ happened to you?” 

Shit.  _ Shit _ . “OK, I know this looks bad, sir, but I can explain?” 

“ _ Ma’am _ , Lieutenant. Explain what? Why you look like a praying mantis, or why you’re doing a strip show on an Iconian dreadnought?” 

“It involves Franklin Drake,” Lamont speaks up, trying to cover for me as my armor plates ripple with shame. “If that helps.” He passes me a shiny field blanket, which I use as a makeshift privacy curtain as I kick my undersuit and ruined panties off. 

“Er, yeah, it’s kind of a long story. Let me put it this way, sir, I mean, ma’am… these are new fingers—” and I hold up and wiggle the last two digits of my right hand, which I regrew after the Iconian leader’s lieutenant vaporized them earlier in the fight “—and that, ah, pile of bloody humanoid skin that you just missed when you beamed in? That’s, er, mine. Or was, before the keratin plates tore it to shreds on their way out.” 

She looks behind her, and at a pile of my skin. I’m so humiliated that death by Iconian vaporization-gauntlet is looking mighty attractive. “OK, I’m lost. Um, I’m angry, and I’m armed.” 

“I know, ma’am, I know, shit augment set for a soldier, I’m very sorry, really genuinely not my fault, I took the enemy flagship, please don’t turn me over to Franklin Drake’s people?” 

Yeah, that doesn’t appease her. “What the  _ phekk _ does Section 31 have to do with this? One of you give me a straight answer or I’m throwing all of you in the brig for insubordination. You’ve got about ten seconds to start talking. Nine. Eight.” 

I kick off the last of my suit. “You’d better sit down; it’s a long story, Captain. Franklin Drake wants me, well, my blood, and my DNA, and I’m not really what I was supposed to be, I’m loyal to the Federation, sir, I can explain but it’ll take a while. I’ve been genetically and physically augmented.”

She gestures at my armor, a set of little interlocking plates covering my entire body like thick scales, even my face largely replaced by plates of the stuff. “Augment.” I wince as I use the blanket as a makeshift toga. 

“Yeah. Supposed to be an infiltrator/commando/assassin model. The plating’s part of my reactive adaptation—emergency defense mechanism in response to injury and other external threats. I’m no scientist, but I took freshman bio, so I know enough about what I was told to say that my body basically rewrites my DNA—not literally, it’s this stuff called epigenetics, but it’s effectively rewriting it, and it’s a hormone reaction in response to external threats. Burn me, I grow this stuff—it’s heat resistant, can take a phaser set to kill and do not much more than smoke. I get cut or shot, bulletproof layered chitin. Acid, I start leaking sodium hydroxide from my pores and have to eat a fuckload of salt for days or I get cramps like a period on steroids—plus side, I don’t have a period anymore, my reproductive tract atrophied after the first couple of months. I also have superhuman strength, senses, reflexes, speed, the usual augment package. And there’s the adaptive camo suite, but that’s only when I have my skin.” 

She looks a little sick. Or possibly horrified. “That’s a  _ lot _ of mods.” 

“I’m not supposed to be a person, Captain. I’m supposed to be a weapon.” 

“Even if that’s true, you’re  _ our _ weapon, L-T,” Lamont growls. “You pulled all our behinds out of the fire enough times--” 

Something bubbles up in me. It’s not  _ right _ , him saying that. It’s not right that a fucking monster like me gets to live while a good family man like Oran Talur dies and leaves his daughter without a dad. “My fucking augments didn’t save Oran Talur.” 

Lamont snaps at me, actually snaps. “Don’t you blame yourself for that, sir! I’ve told you ten  _ freaking  _ times, Oran Talur did what he had to do. He saved dozens if not hundreds of lives!” 

“On topic!” Kanril cuts in. My squad didn’t used to argue like this in front of senior officers. Stress of the war must be getting to us MACOs, even. “You have superhuman strength?” 

“Yeah,” I reply, rubbing a hand over my eyes. The scraping of chitin on chitin hurts my ears, and the Captain winces. “Sorry. Uh, yeah, I can lift about a thousand kilos, puts me in the league of a big Romulan powerlifter. I’ve also got a rapid metabolism, gets worse when I have to regenerate or adapt. I carry nutrient pouches, but I, ah, had to eat about a third of a Herald Thrall on the way here. For the fingers, rebuilding a vertebra after it got broken, and the armor, plus sustained combat.” 

“Broken vertebra? What hit you?” 

“The Herald leader, 18754 or whatever they called him, bashed me pretty hard against a wall, then I stressed it and the ribs jumping him. The bastard got away, we checked the security feeds.” 

“Admiral Kree got him on the  _ Marduk  _ he’s dead. Nearly took her with him, though.”

“How bad?”

“Not sure yet; she just went into surgery.”

“Damn. I owe her a drink when she gets out.” I double-check my blanket, toss the last couple of scraps of padding onto the bloody pieces of my hardsuit, and nod to my second. “Lamont, how’s fireteam two doing?” 

“Sweeping the last deck, LT. It looks like we got them all, though, after hitting their engineering section and those attacks on the killbox. Casualty reports coming in, three serious injuries, seventeen noncritical, about two hundred superficial across everybody, no deaths unless Kowalski bled out in the last three seconds. We’re damn lucky these Heralds are such crap soldiers, sir.” 

“Man, you’d think they’d learn after suiciding against us a couple of times.” I shake my armored head. 

The Captain cares more about me being an aug-freak, though. “Why the  _ phekk  _ didn’t you tell me about this the minute you came on board? I could’ve gotten you more troops and you might’ve been able to take out Servitor Eighteen-whatever before he escaped.”

I gesture at myself, then grab the blanket as it starts to slip. “I’m a walking violation of United Earth human augmentation conventions, ma’am.” 

She rolls her eyes. Kanril Eleya  _ fucking rolls her eyes _ at United Earth supreme law. “Humans. Look, Lieutenant, I’m a soldier. Does your situation impede your ability to take or give orders, or to kill the enemy?”

The fuck does that matter? I’m an aug-freak, I’m lucky enough that Kallio isn’t ratting me out after I revealed myself mid-fight! “No, Captain.” 

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.” What.  _ What _ . What the fuck?  _ Nobody _ says that. Even my squad at first was more concerned about me keeping the aug-psychosis under control (well, except for Talur and K’tar, but Talur liked everyone and I guess Klingons like K’tar are more OK with that?), though to be fair Lamont and Luiz haven’t asked me if I’m mentally stable in a few months. 

I barely dare to hope. “You’re… you’re not going to put me on trial or turn me over to Section 31?” 

She snorts. “Section 31 doesn’t exist, and I don’t take orders from people who don’t exist. As for the rest, I  _ would _ advise you to talk to  _ Bajor _ ’s JAGO—that’s Lieutenant Commander Iella Nerys, we offloaded her earlier—but you’ll be covered by attorney-client privilege. I think there’s probably a precedent with the Data and Bashir decisions anyway.”

She wants me to out myself.  _ Fuck _ . “My last CO and I talked several times, he’s worked with JAG a lot and used to teach at the Academy. He wasn’t Human, see, gave me some bullshit about how the Zurich conventions are outdated or something. He said I could live low and try to pass, only trusting the crew since it was inevitable it’d get out, or make a big case out of it. I wanted to keep it quiet, don’t need to dodge Frankie’s bully boys that way.” I scratch my chitin-plated leg and tie off the blanket into a slightly more secure makeshift toga. “Guess that’s no longer an option. Captain.”

She shakes her head with a bit of a smile. “Got it all wrong, Connor. I have no intention of reporting you, neither will Tess; Commander Iella’s just there to protect you in case somebody  _ else _ finds out.” She pauses for a moment, eyeing me. “Gotta be painful. You talked to a doc about it?”

I wince, wondering as I do why Commander Tess Phohl, the Captain’s XO, is also OK with augs. Maybe it’s because the Andorians used gene therapy to help with their sterility crisis 30 years back? “Yeah. I did. The really shitty part, Captain? My nervous system never adapts—even when the plates go through my skin. I vomited the first few times, honestly, still do sometimes. I feel everything; adaptation, regeneration, everything. Doc Fel has to start the anaesthetic at Human LD-50, and go up from there—and each kind works for 10 minutes or so until I adapt to it for the month. Pain-dampening implants don’t work, my body absorbs and repurposes or passes them.” 

She looks like she’s going to be sick. “I sym… No, actually, I can’t sympathise, I have no idea what that feels like. But if you’re willing, I could swear Commander Riyannis to secrecy and see what her people can come up with.”

I stammer a bit as I reply, still trying to process. “Thanks, Captain. I… I mean, Fel’s got degrees from Trill and Harvard—I know, you look at a Pakled and you don’t think trauma surgeon with three published articles in the Federated States of Trill Journal of Medicine despite being an active-service CMO, but he’s damn good—but it couldn’t hurt.” I offer her a grin, revealing the razor-sharp triangular shark teeth that Section 31 replaced mine with. “Who knows, we might find something that helps other people, as well?”

“Maybe we do. So, is this monstrosity you hijacked still warp-capable?”

“Better,” says K’tar from the control console. “I have access to the gateway functions, Iconian coms, weapons, shields, cyberwarfare suite, everything. These dumbasses even use the same password for everything—it’s the leader one’s name.”

“All I care about is the engines. Let’s put this thing to work, start collecting escape pods and searching wrecks for survivors. Then set a course for home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Carry on, and good job, all of you.” Kallio, Lamont, and Luiz salute and thank her. 

“Captain?” I ask, starting to pack up my hardsuit bits. “Thank you, ma’am.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Her combadge pings, and I suck in an involuntary breath. “Kanril to  _ Bajor _ . All clear, there’s no problem here, just a miscommunication.” 

“ _ Captain, we lost contact with Lieutenant Connor’s bio-readings, what happened? _ ” 

“She took off the suit, it sustained critical damage in the boarding operation. The assault team’s taking this unholy behemoth to the rendezvous, I’ll stay with them for the trip. You have the bridge, Commander.” 

As she makes small talk with us and quizzes me on being an aug, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

For some reason, it never comes. 

* * *

_ September 1 _ _ st _ _ , 2410. Alvira City, Kreetassia, United Federation of Planets.  _

Lieutenant-Commander (retired) Bev-tak vo-Loskata to-Var kree-Sanat (honorably discharged for medical reasons) somewhat unsteadily opened the door. Two black-jumpsuited people, a female Human and a male Kreetassian. Bev gripped her personal defense phaser’s handle carefully, hiding it with a fold of her pants down by her prosthetic legs. “Can I help you?” 

“Lieutenant-Commander Bev kree-Sanat?” the Human asked. 

“That’s me. Medically discharged, though.” 

“We need you to come with us, ma’am. You’re wanted for questioning about your former squadmate, Rachel Connor.” 

“Rachel? She’s gone. Assimilated. You people are about three and a half years behind the times.” 

The black jumpsuits looked at each other. “Do you watch much holovision, Lieutenant-Commander?” asked the Kreetassian. 

“Nope,” Bev lied. “I know we beat the Iconians thanks to some Bajoran and a Romulan weapon, and that’s all I care to know. I’m retired. Medical discharge, you know, two legs missing. One at the hip. I write now. Alternate-history novels. I have one coming out next month,  _ Archer’s Rise: The Romulan Plot _ . It’s about a different Xindi attack leaving Ambassador Archer as President of United Earth and him forming the Federation early--I can give you a free advance copy, if you like.” 

“I’m sure it’s very entertaining. But you need to come with us now, ma’am,” the Human replied. 

“I’m going nowhere. You don’t have a warrant, I know my rights.” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am…” began the Human, pulling out a phaser…

Bev stunned them both before they knew what hit them. “Spooks. Fucking amateurs.” More Section 31 goons. Rachel was still a fucking dumbass, pulling a stunt like that with the Iconian command ship. But she’d at least had the decency to drop Bev a quick letter, though it had taken the Kreetassian until just a week ago to put together the dots and realize that Rachel was on the run from Section 31 for reasons a lot more serious than being ex-Borg. 

Well, Rachel might still be a ground-pounding grunt, but Bev had gotten into Intelligence before her legs had been taken in a battle with Tal’Shiar remnants. It was about time she called her  _ new _ boss; Admiral zh’Zoarhi, the head of Starfleet Intelligence. Bev’s protective cover was blown now anyway, and Bev Kree-Sanat was  _ damned _ if she was going to let her old friend get caught by a bunch of terrorists if there was anything she could do about it. 


End file.
